


The Year of the Lion

by satincolt



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Lio Fotia, Body Horror, Found Family, Friendship, Massachusetts AU, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Police Brutality, Pre-Canon, Trans Lio Fotia, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satincolt/pseuds/satincolt
Summary: If you asked Lio Fotia how he became the leader of the arson terrorist group the Mad Burnish and he deigned to answer you, he may give you any number of crazy but equally plausible yarns that he thinks you most want to hear.  Not a single one of them would involve the slightest shred of truth about the 366 days it took for Caroline “Lio” Fotia, the underpaid insurance secretary, to kill, escape the law, become a fugitive, unwittingly participate in the Great World Blaze riots of New York City, kill hundreds more, flee to the deserts of the Southwest while being chased by federal Burnish-hunting shock troops, lose a father figure, encounter the Mad Burnish biker gang, and overpower its leadership to take his place at the top.  Nobody would ever hear about the burning trail of wreckage and bodies Lio left from Northeast to Southwest, nor would they ever hear about the agonies of guilt, terror, loss of identity, and self-discovery that Lio endured once his goal in life became simply to survive.  Nobody would ever know about the Year of the Lion that created Lio Fotia.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	1. Day 0

**Author's Note:**

> Hello & welcome to my take on Lio's backstory! This is gonna be a rough ride (if the tags and description didn't let on to that), so strap in buckaroos. Tags will be updated as I go & updates should be every 3 days. I hope you enjoy!

**Day -1**

Lio stops at the corner store near his apartment on his way home from work. It’s been a day just like any other but somehow it’s been even more aggravating than usual. He chalks his irritability up to lack of sleep and he keeps reminding himself that he can’t let clients get to him as he steps into the store and shuffles sideways into the narrow aisle stacked floor-to-ceiling with junk food that’s somehow still covered by food stamps. Lio is one of maybe a dozen people in his neighborhood that isn’t on food stamps, but only just barely. He selects his bag of barbeque potato chips and shuffles out of the narrow aisle and up to the register, crammed into the front corner of the store.

The bored teenage cashier gives Lio and uninterested, but slightly confused and curious, look as he puts his potato chips up on the counter and carefully fishes his wallet out of his pants pocket. He’s still wearing work clothes, and fuck knows why designers are so determined for women to have no pockets, but Lio would sooner step out in front of traffic on 495 than carry a purse. He pulls out the requisite amount of dollar bills and hands them over to the cashier. The cashier says nothing. She rings him up and pulls out a used plastic Market Basket bag.

“I don’t need a bag,” Lio says, taking his potato chips off the counter. The cashier sullenly puts the crumpled plastic bag back under the counter. Lio slides backwards and steps sideways to edge out the door of the store and he’s halfway out into the biting November air when the cashier speaks up and says,

“Miss, you left your wallet.”

Lio hisses through his clenched teeth. He steps back inside, snatches his wallet off the counter with a forced smile, and jumps back out the door, letting the wind slam it. Fuming as he stalks home, Lio opens the chips and angrily crunches down on them, imagining each chip is a client who’d called him “ma’am” today. It doesn’t really help.

The obnoxious second-floor neighbors are outside the apartment when Lio pushes through them, stomps up the steps, and closes the front door behind them, locking them all outside. If they didn’t remember their keys, they can figure it out. Lio is petty and angry and well within his rights to want the house’s front door to be locked after dusk in this part of the city. At least if the neighbors are outside they can’t play loud music and stomp around like dinosaurs above his head.

Lio’s roommate is on the couch on his phone when Lio slides into the apartment. It’s cluttered and needs to be cleaned, but Lio doesn’t feel like it and he knows his roommate never feels like it. Lio had found the guy on Craigslist when his old roommate moved out and he needed a replacement to afford the apartment. They speak maybe once every two weeks. So, as usual, Lio heads straight to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He changes into his pajamas even though it’s only six o’clock, hangs up his suit, and pulls a new blouse out of the closet for tomorrow.

After all, he’s got another busy day of answering the phone and being misgendered at the insurance office ahead of him.

* * *

**Day 0**

Lio looks up from his computer at the sound of the waiting room door opening. He doesn’t bother closing the browser tab where he’d been searching for a new job. A balding man in an ill-fitted and aged suit stands in front of him, looking somewhat agitated.

“Hello, how can I help you?” Lio intones automatically. The guy blinks at him, as if not expecting that voice out of him.

“I have an appointment with the adjuster—uh, Missus Stone or something?”

“Ms. Stane,” Lio corrects him automatically, opening his email and firing off a quick message to let her know her next appointment is here. “Please have a seat. She’s finishing up her meeting with the last client.”

The guy sits in the chair most directly opposite Lio’s desk in the small, outdated, fluorescent-lit waiting room. On the table next to him are magazines that nobody bothers to actually read. He pulls out his phone like everyone else does when confronted with a depressing waiting room. Lio goes back to his half-assed job search.

“Damn… did you hear about the fires?” the guy says into the silence. Lio attempts to ignore him. “Whole neighborhood went up in an electrical fire yesterday. Roasted seventeen people,” the guy continues in a louder voice. 

“I hadn’t heard,” Lio mutters, not wanting to engage with him but also not wanting to hear an earful from his supervisor about being more cordial to clients.

“Yeah, they’re wicked pissed at NGrid,” the guy says, still scrolling through some article on his phone. “There’s another one that happened this morning. Said a guy just caught on fire in the middle of the street. Killed two people but the guy was fine.”

Lio frowns at his computer screen. “That’s not possible.” He pulls up the local Patch page and scrolls through until he finds articles talking about the same incidents. The guy says something else but Lio doesn’t hear, focused on reading the article. There are cell phone pictures of the blaze, the flames blowing out the camera sensor and in the distortion they almost look blue and pink, but the shape of the man standing upright and unharmed in the center of them is unmistakable, especially with the shapes of two crumpled bodies lying at his feet. The caption under the photos say this is the first confirmed, public case of spontaneous human combustion in New England, but the eighteenth case nationally in two days.

Suddenly, the man is perching on the edge of Lio’s desk, leaning over to see his computer screen. Lio scowls at him and pushes back from his desk. “Would you please have a seat,” he says flatly.

“I am seated,” the guy says distractedly, reading the article on Lio’s screen. This close, he has the definite appearance of a man nursing a poorly-concealed addiction, and the faint odor of homelessness. “Fuckin’ weird, isn’t it?”

“Please have a seat elsewhere than my desk,” Lio says again, his tone harsher. The guy raises his hands in mock-innocence.

“Fine, fine, I’m not doing anything, don’t get your panties in a wad,” he says, standing from the desk and knocking Lio’s nameplate off. He bends to pick it up, squinting at it as he holds it in his hands. “How’s a girl end up with a name like Lio?”

“It’s short for Lionel,” Lio growls, holding out his hand to take the nameplate back. The guy looks at him— _really_ looks at him, scrutinizing every visible aspect of his appearance.

“You’re really girly-looking for a Lionel,” he says slowly, his eyes dropping down to Lio’s chest. “You are a girl, aren’t you? Like a lesbian who likes to pretend she’s a man?”

“Please give me my nameplate back and have a seat over there,” Lio snaps, making direct eye contact with the man.

“I’m just asking a question, why won’t you answer me?” the guy says, again affecting innocence.

 _You know you’re not just asking a question,_ Lio thinks viciously. He could punch this asshole in the face. Instead, he turns as calmly as he physically can and punches Jessica Stane’s number into his phone. She answers on the first ring and says, _“I’ll be right there, hang on,”_ and then hangs up. Lio _never_ calls her to come pick up clients. An email always suffices. Seconds later, Jess opens the door to the waiting room and greets the man with a practiced smile.

“Mr. Hall, this way please,” she says, ushering him into the back. Hall drops Lio’s nameplate on his desk with one last, leering grin and an invasive look down into Lio’s lap. Then the door closes behind him and Lio hears Jess’s muffled voice and he suddenly feels like he’s going to cry.

He sits there, staring blankly at the calendar blotter on his desk, while his head feels completely empty though his thoughts are racing. They’re moving too fast for him to pin down or understand, ricocheting off the inside of his skull like bullets, bouncing around and around and shredding everything in the process. It’s not that he hasn’t dealt with worse before—he has—but this somehow _feels_ worse, being the latest in a four-day-long string of _nobody_ gendering him correctly. There was the call from his mom _(“Caroline, you haven’t called in forever, I miss hearing from my baby girl, tell me about your new job!”),_ the well-meaning but old-fashioned woman who’d had an appointment on Monday (“It’s so nice to see so many women in the workforce nowadays!”), the secretary at his doctor’s office on the phone _(“Have a nice day, ma’am.”),_ the convenience store clerk yesterday, and now _this._

Mechanically, Lio sorts through his emails and arranges his desk and shuffles back and forth between browser tabs, unable to focus on anything other than the burning, gnawing sensation of an imminent breakdown inside his chest. Time slips past him and what feels like only moments later, that slimeball Hall is standing in front of Lio’s desk again. When Lio checks in to reality again, it seems like Hall’s been trying to get his attention for a few seconds.

“Hey, sweetheart?” he waves his hand in front of Lio’s face, and that fully snaps him out of his fugue state.

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart,’” Lio barks, standing from his chair. He’s still a head shorter than Hall and _knows_ he’s not intimidating in the slightest and that nobody will _ever_ take him seriously as a man or when he’s mad because he’s just _too short_ and _too feminine_ and they’ll always brush him off and laugh at him and the burning is getting worse, Lio’s entire face is prickling and he can feel the tears in his eyes and he’s just _so furious he can’t stop himself from crying—_

The explosion knocks Lio backwards. His whole face is hot, his palms are hot, tears are streaming down his face and they’re even hotter. He blinks through the bright teal and fuchsia light that has engulfed the waiting room and can’t understand what he’s seeing. Everything is enveloped in prismatic colors, like the whole room and everything in it had been dunked in a crystallizing solution. Hall is staring at Lio in horror, frozen. And that when everything starts to melt.

The plastics on Lio’s desk go first, puddling down into a shiny slop that coats the surface of the desk and drips down onto the floor. Then the chairs across the room, tilting and dripping and collapsing in on themselves. Then the polyester of Hall’s suit. Hall’s agonized screams rip at Lio’s ears like claws. He’s apologizing, begging, shrieking for mercy, and Lio can’t move. He can’t close his eyes. All he can do is watch Hall’s skin fry, turning black and bubbled, flaking off in pieces and leaving raw swathes of meat exposed. It cooks almost instantaneously, looking and smelling so much like beef that Lio throws up in his mouth. Even as he’s being seared, Hall is still alive, still screaming, collapsed on the floor, the exposed bone of his fingertips scrabbling at the burned carpet.

“Help me!” he screams again, “help!” And then he loses his voice. Lio’s knees give out. Instead of falling to the floor, Lio falls forward into a shaky, shambling run. He bursts through the door into the back of the office, where it’s suddenly so cold and yellow. That _light_ wasn’t here, killing Jess, yet. He grabs the doorframe of Jess’s office and Jess screams.

“Lio!” she yelps, pushing herself back into the far corner of her office. Lio looks at his hand where it’s braced on the frame. It’s consumed in the crystals, rippling and flickering like shattered pink and blue glass. Sirens wail outside. The crystals vanish from Lio’s hand. His body gives out. Crumpled on his knees in the doorway of Jess’s office, Lio spits out the vomit from his mouth, gagging and gasping, tears still flowing down his cheeks. “Lio!” Jess cries again.

Firemen appear at the end of the hall. Rough gloved hands grab Lio. A shoulder digs into his abdomen. Lio looks up to see the killing light leaking under the door into the back hallway, needles of it racing down the carpet and spiderwebbing up the walls like reality is cracking apart in front of Lio’s eyes. Then there’s a stretcher under Lio and he’s looking at the outside of the office building, magenta light pouring from the windows of the second-floor office like flames, the sky dark and storm-black, like it’s filled with smoke. But how could it be, when there’s no fire?

A hand waves in front of Lio’s face, a distant voice asks Lio something. He can still hear Hall’s screams inside the building, piercing, loud as if Hall is still burning to death and melting into the floor in front of Lio. 

The second explosion hits with a wall of cold spray and the staccato shattering of glass. Rivers of water pour into the office building, the light unaffected. In its strange planar surface, Lio sees himself reflected a dozen times larger than real life; not just a small blond boy sitting on a stretcher but something so much more. He sees a dragon’s head, the snake-like serpent prowling through the waiting room, its huge round eye staring blankly outwards through the water and broken glass at Lio. The ambulance doors close in front of Lio’s face, shutting him away from the horrifying visions in the killing light.

* * *

At the hospital, Lio lies in the bed surrounded by a doctor, two nurses, and two police officers. Lio is completely and utterly exhausted. He feels tiny and helpless before these people towering over him in their uniforms. “He _melted?”_ one officer asks for the second time. Lio nods.

“There was an explosion. I fell backwards. When I looked up he was screaming and—” Lio pauses, fighting not to get pulled into the memory— “melting. I ran away.”

“Do you want to add _anything_ else that might help us with our investigation?” the other officer asks more kindly. He seems more sensitive to Lio’s condition. Lio shakes his head. “Okay. Would you fill out this written statement form?” He hands a paper to Lio then pulls a pen out of his breast pocket and hands that over as well. One of the nurses provides a clipboard.

On the form, Lio hesitates over the name line, then reluctantly puts down “Caroline Fotia” because that’s what’s (unfortunately) still on his ID, and transcribes his exact words onto the page and signs the bottom. He hands the cop back the paper and pen wordlessly. The cops depart with the doctor.

“Okay, honey, we’re all done with you. I’ve got your discharge papers here. Your clothes are on the chair, I’ll pull the curtain so you can change, then you can leave out the front door; it’s down the hallway, take a left…”

* * *

Lio is sitting on his bed in his pajamas at six o’clock just as he would’ve been if today had been remotely normal, except with a lap full of hospital paperwork. _Dealing with Shock,_ one paper says. Another is titled _Aftercare for Burn Victims,_ despite the profound lack of burns anywhere on Lio’s body. There’s pages of Lio’s vitals. None of it means anything to him. On the bed next to him, his phone buzzes with a text from Jess telling him the office is closed until further notice and asking if he’s okay. Lio doesn’t respond. He’s too busy sorting through his memories.

The more he mulls over that rapid and chaotic sequence of events, the less it makes sense. The firefighters, Jess, the hospital staff, they had all treated Lio as if he’d been in a fire, and fire did seem to describe some of the things that had happened: Hall frying, cooking, melting; the smoke; the fire department. But it just doesn’t make any sense in terms of what Lio had actually _seen,_ that light like dyed crystal candy that had killed Hall and swallowed Lio but hadn’t left a single mark on him. There had been no smoke inside the office. _Lio wasn’t burned._ It had been hot, but hadn’t burned him. It _doesn’t make sense._ And yet, an explanation defies him.

A knock on Lio’s door startles him. He gets up and opens it to find his roommate standing there. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” Lio says. They stare at each other for a second before his roommate speaks again.

“I heard your office caught on fire today. It’s in the Patch and the Telegram. They’re saying it’s the twentieth confirmed spontaneous human combustion event in the country.”

Lio nods politely and with the conversation exhausted, Lio’s roommate gives an awkward nod and turns away and Lio retreats back into privacy. He pulls up the Telegram on his phone and scrolls through to the news article about his office. It’s spare on the details and he gains nothing from it. Police haven’t released any information yet as the incident is still under investigation, but the arson unit has confirmed it was a case of spontaneous human combustion.

Automatically, Lio puts himself to bed and as he lies there, brain falling asleep by the command of routine, he can’t stop seeing that crystalline magenta dragon on the inside of his eyelids.


	2. Wauchusset PD Report #19-4287

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***THE POLICE REPORT IN THIS CHAPTER IS FICTIONAL AND SHOULD NOT BE TAKEN TO REPRESENT THE REAL REPORT OF ANY POLICE DEPARTMENT IN MASSACHUSETTS. ALL LOCATIONS, EVENTS, AND PEOPLE REPRESENTED HEREIN ARE FICTIONAL AND ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL LOCATIONS, EVENTS, AND PEOPLE IS INCIDENTAL***
> 
> My job requires me to read a lot of police reports so I have a deep familiarity with how they are written and formatted. I apologize for the low-resolution images, but poor copying and moderate illegibility (along with lots of typos, droll writing, and bad formatting) are just part of the Authentic Police Report Experience (TM). Text version of the report will be below the images for anyone who has difficulty with the pictures!

**BELOW IS A PLAIN TEXT VERSION OF THE POLICE REPORT:**

On the above date and time I PTL Booker was dispatched to 12 Overland Rd (Patriot Insurance Bldg) for a report of a fire in the second floor. Upon arrival SGT Piers, SGT Butcher and PTL Dunn were on scene with Wachusset Fire Dept and were evacuating the building. I observed flames coming from the southeast corner of the building that where pink in color and there was a significant amount of smoke in the air.

PTL Dunn conducted emergency traffic control as it should be noted 12 Overland Rd is on a main street near a residential area and there was a significant amount of cars and pedestrians stopping to watch. During traffic control PTL Dunn spoke with a witness later identified as

Chelsea STROUD DOB 6/17/1989

1970 Tulip Rd

Wachusset, MA

872-728-9738

See PTL Dunn’s supplemental report for STROUDs statements (attached).

SGT Butcher and myself spoke to an involved party identified as

Jessica STANE DOB 1/23/1990

67 Canada Dr

Wachusset, MA

872-278-2678

STANE stated she works at 12 Overland Dr for Patriot Insurance as a small clams adjuster. She stated she had one meeting that morning with

Edison HALL DOB 9/20/1982

12 Ashburton Pl

Boston, MA

872-543-1624

and after that meeting, at approximately 1025hrs, STANE heard a loud bang in the reception area of the office and HALL screaming. Moments later STANEs secretary identified as

Caroline FOTIA DOB 8/2/1996

89 Overland Rd

Wachusset MA

529-992-9885

appeared at the door to STANEs office in obvious distress. STANE specifically requested I use FOTIAs preferred name of “Leo” in my report and advised that FOTIA is a transgender who identifies as male. STANE stated FOTIA was sweating profusely and very pale and FATIA was unaware that “his” hand was on fire. FOTIA then collapsed to “his” knees and vomited and appeared to be dazed and would not respond to “his” name when STANE addressed “him.” At that point WFD Firefighters Santana and Provost evacuated STANE and FOTIA from the building. STANE declined medical treatment on scene saying she was uninjured just “shaken up” (refusal signed and attached). STANE was given a written statement form and stated she would bring it by the police station tomorrow.

FOITA was unresponsive to myself and to EMT Tomes and could not answer basic questions. STANE provided “his” information and EMT Tomes was of the opinion that FOTIA was in shock. FOTIA was transported by WFD to Wachusset General Hopsital. SGT Butcher and PTL Dunn accompanied. PTL Dunn obtained FOTIAs written statement at the hospital (attached).

WFD suppressed the fire at 12 Overland Rd and once it had been declared safe SGT Piers and myself entered the building with WFD firefighters. The interior of suite 200 was burned only in the waiting room area. HALL was located in the center of the room deceased and his remains were removed via stretcher by Firefighters Pereira and Walsh. See SGT Piers supplemental report.

12 Overland drive was restricted from public access by myself utilizing police line tape and a posted order of no trespass. Nothing further.

Respectfully,

PTL Jackson Booker #343

SUPPLEMENTAL REPORT BY DET SALEM

On November 4, 2019 at approx. 10:26am, I followed up with involved party Jessica STANE on the phone about her written statement. STANE apologized for forgetting and offered to email me the statement at my work email (gsalem@wauchussetpdma.com). Below is a summary of STANE’s statement: My name is Jessica Stane, I work for Patriot Insurance as a small claims adjuster. On Tuesday 11/2 I had a meeting with a client named Edison Hall at 10:15am. Mr Hall was early for the meeting so I had Lio (the secretary) have him wait in the waiting room. Lio called me to come get Mr Hall and didn’t say why and during our meeting Mr Hall mentioned that Lio had been rude to him. When the meeting ended I showed Mr Hall back to the waiting room and returned to my office. A few minutes later I heard a big bang like a gunshot or car backfiring or explosion. I was scared so I called 911. Then Lio ran into my office completely pale and really upset. He didn’t seem to notice his hand was on fire and then he fell over and threw up. I was yelling his name and he wasn’t responding and I was afraid he was dead. Then the fire department got there and took us out of the building. Lio was really out of it so I gave the police his information and he went to the hospital. I didn’t see them take Mr Hall out of the building. I was terrified the entire time, nothing like this has ever happened to me.

Upon reading this I followed up with Caroline “Lio” FOTIA on the phone at 11:15am. FOTIA had provided a short written statement to PTL Dunn at Wauchusset General Hospital as follows: There was an explosion. I fell backwards. When I looked up he was screaming and melting. I ran away. I requested FOTIA come down to the station for an interview, since he was the last person to see the victim (HALL). FOTIA agreed and arrived at the police station at 12:20pm and I met him in the lobby.

I provided FOTIA with his Miranda warning and advised him that this interview would be audio and video recorded with his consent, and that he was not under arrest and free to terminate the interview or leave at any time. FOTIA agreed to have the interview recorded (recording available upon request). I asked FOTIA to walk me through his Tuesday morning with HALL. FOTIA stated HALL arrived for an appointment with STANE around 10:10am. FOTIA emailed STANE to notify her HALL had arrived and he told HALL to have a seat and wait. HALL then attempted to engage FOTIA in conversation about the recent fires in Wauchusset and Baughsborough and sat on FOTIA’s desk to look at FOTIA’s computer screen. FOTIA was upset by HALL’s behavior and asked him to sit across the room. HALL knocked FOTIA’s name tag off his desk and commented on FOTIA’s name seeming too masculine for his appearance. FOTIA stated “Lio” was short for “Lionel” as he did not want to disclose his legal name to HALL for fear of verbal or physical harassment. FOTIA informed me HALL made a disparaging remark about FOTIA being a “lesbian” who likes to “pretend to be a man” and looked at his body lecherously, at which point FOTIA called STANE to collect HALL because FOTIA was significantly distressed by HALL’s behavior. FOTIA stated he was upset by HALL’s actions and words as he is frequently “misgendered” and felt HALL was doing so maliciously. It should be noted that FOTIA is short in stature and has a slight build, as well as blond hair worn in a short bob style and appears to be very young and of indeterminate sex. FOTIA informed me he is transgender and identifies as male and has taken medical transition steps including hormone replacement therapy to improve his masculine appearance.

I asked FOTIA to describe what happened after HALL returned to the reception area. FOTIA said he was “checked out” after the earlier encounter with HALL and didn’t notice when HALL returned to the waiting room until HALL got his attention by waving a hand in FOTIA’s face and saying “hey sweetheart”. FOTIA stated he stood and yelled at HALL to not call him “sweetheart” and that he was “absolutely livid” and had “reached his breaking point”. I asked FOTIA to clarify if he meant with HALL specifically and he advised me it was generalized from many small events over the past week. FOTIA stated he began to cry and then there was an “explosion” that knocked FOTIA backwards. He described the room as “melting” but not being on fire and that everything was colored pink and blue. FOTIA said the room was hot, but he was not in any pain. When HALL began screaming and melting in front of FOTIA, FOTIA stated he was “paralyzed” with fear and disgust and threw up in his mouth, then ran away to find STANE. FOTIA described being in a “daze” after he threw up in STANE’s office and barely remembering anything after that, only remembering SGT Butcher and PTL Dunn at the hospital. At this point I thanked FOTIA for his time and informed him the interview was over. I advised FOTIA I might reach out to him in the future.

Further investigation required.

ADDITION BY DET SALEM AT 1652HRS

At approx. 4:00pm I spoke to Detective Sheila Knox of the Baughsborough Police Department regarding the case of spontaneous human combustion that occurred on 10/31/19 in Baughsborough. DET Knox advised me the incident was still under investigation. I informed DET Knox of this case and requested any police reports, recorded interviews, and witness statements from BPD that would aid in my investigation. DET Knox emailed me BPD #19-3084-IN and its attached statements and interviews (available upon request). Upon speaking with DET Knox I learned of similarities between the two cases.

I am of the opinion that Edwin HALL was the victim of spontaneous human combustion. Unlike other reported victims of SHC HALL did not survive the event. I am waiting on the arson investigator’s report to determine the source point and spread of the fire. Until then investigation is ongoing.

Detective Gregory Salem # 669

SUPPLEMENTAL REPORT BY DET SALEM

On November 12, 2019 I received the arson investigator’s report on the fire at 12 Overland Rd on 11/02/19 (attached). The report indicates the source point for the flames was behind FOTIA’s desk and that the flames radiated outwards from that point. No accelerants or ignition materials were found at the scene. I attempted to contact FOTIA by phone but was unable to reach him. I left a voicemail at approx. 2:00pm requesting FOTIA return my call. I again spoke with DET Knox of the Baughsborough Police Department regarding the custody status of the surviving SHC suspect. DET Knox informed me the suspect was in custody pending a manslaughter investigation stemming from the incident.

At 2:30pm I again attempted to contact FOTIA by phone and was unable to reach him. A cruiser was dispatched to FOTIA’s home address of 89 Overland Rd and received no response. I reviewed the facts of my investigation with DET SGT Padilla, who formed the opinion that probable cause exists to arrest FOTIA for the unlawful death of Edwin HALL on 11/02/19 by burning. Seeing as FOTIA was unable to be contacted, I respectfully request a warrant be issued for:

Caroline FOTIA DOB 8/2/1996

89 Overland Rd

Wachusset MA

529-992-9885

and find probable cause to request the charge be issued for FOTIA for:

MAGL 4.1.265 §13 MANSLAUGHTER in which CAROLINE FOTIA did unlawfully and without premeditation affect the death of EDWIN HUNT, the punishment for which shall be imprisonment in state prison for not more than twenty years or by a fine of not more than one thousand dollars and imprisonment in jail or a house of correction for not more than two and one half years. Whoever commits manslaughter while violating the provisions of sections 102 to 102C, inclusive, of chapter 266 shall be imprisoned in the state prison for life or for any term of years.

I formally request this investigation be closed. Nothing further.

DETECTIVE GREGORY SALEM # 669


	3. Day 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of an old college friend, Lio escapes Massachusetts and flees to freedom in New York City just as the media is beginning to pick up on the dangerous and newly-named "Burnish" phenomenon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has not been abandoned! I had to take a break for a bit and my inspiration died, but it's been rekindled by my most recent rewatch of Promare! This chapter is longer than I expected, so enjoy!

**Day 14**

Lio drops his phone on the bed beside him, the tinny music coming out its small speaker muffled by the bedspread. It’s been several days since he’s left the house following the police's latest attempt to get a hold of him. He knows he’s in trouble, it doesn’t take a genius to work that out especially with the news cycle hyperfixated on the spontaneous human combustion pandemic that they’re now suddenly calling “Burnish.” The Patch and Telegram have both been going crazy about Lio’s incident. The police released his name to the press and the journalists had gone to town. The trapped feeling bearing down on Lio from all angles is overwhelming, leaving him paralyzed with indecision and fear.

Watching the hamster wheel of the news go round and round hasn’t helped Lio at all. It’s been a couple days since he’s really eaten anything and longer since he’s gotten good sleep. In the silences when his phone stops playing music and in the darkness behind his closed eyelids, all Lio can hear and see is Hall, screaming for help as he is eaten alive by the killing light, the “Burnish” fire. Lio had done that. Lio had killed him. Lio had sicced that monstrous devouring fire on him. Hall had been an asshole, but he hadn’t deserved that fate, had he? 

One thing is clear in Lio’s mind, though: he can’t stay here. The police will find him or he’ll have another incident. Since that day he’s felt a constant and persistent itching under his skin, filling him with a restless energy that he has no clue how to use.

It was like an itch Lio couldn’t seem to scratch, an urge he couldn’t seem to sate, so he did his best to distract himself and ignore it. In his current homebound and fugitive-from-the-law status, that meant doing his best to plan his escape.

Lio picks his phone up again, changing the song as he does so, and opens Messenger. He scrolls through his past conversations until he comes to one, Ana Brennen. Lio types and retypes the message several times, but by the time he hits send, it reads:

_Hi Ana, I’m sorry to come to you with this, but I need your help. I’ve gotten into trouble up in MA and I need to get away from it. Would it be okay if I came down to NYC and stayed with you for a little bit until I can get on my feet again?_

It’s still not great, and Lio doesn’t like it very much even as he sends it. Once it pops up on the screen, the nerves set in waiting for Ana’s response. The reserved German girl had been Lio’s junior year roommate in college, and she had a head on her shoulders like nobody else Lio knew. She seemed twice her age in wisdom, so if there was anyone who could at least offer Lio words of advice—

_You’re not in trouble with the mafia are you?_

Lio fumbles his phone to shoot back a quick _“not exactly but close,”_ hating that he was in this situation and that he was now dragging Ana down into it.

_Call me,_ is all she sends back, and Lio hits the phone-shaped button at the top of their chat. As the ribbed dial tone buzzes in Lio’s right ear, he fists his left hand in the blankets and forces himself to take a deep breath.

_“Hi, Lio,”_ Ana says immediately. Her voice is deep and her accent subtle, and hearing her speak again puts Lio a little more at ease despite the situation.

“Hi, Ana. I’m sorry to send you such a cryptic text.”

_“What’s wrong? Is it related to this Burnish thing that’s going on?”_

Lio’s face twists in a guilty grimace, though Ana can’t see that, he suspects she knows it. “Yeah. It is. I’m—the police want me. I, uh. I set someone on fire. Accidentally—I didn’t mean to, he was harassing me; it just _happened._ I had no control over it. I didn’t mean to.”

On the other end of the line, Ana sighs. It’s difficult to interpret the sound. _“So you’re what they call Burnish.”_

“I guess,” Lio allows. “I don’t think of myself like that.”

_“But everyone else does, now.”_ Astute as always.

“Yes,” Lio agrees slowly.

_“Have you seen what the news is saying about the Burnish?”_ Ana asks, her voice still very level and measured.

“Yes,” Lio agrees again. “There’s four articles about me. The police want me for manslaughter.”

_“Fuck, Lio,”_ Ana sighs, her voice becoming strained for a second before she composes herself again. _“The world is turning into a shit show right now because of the Burnish. Nobody knows what’s happening, and everyone is panicking. We’ve had over a hundred Burnish incidents in the last two weeks in New York. The mayor is thinking about putting the whole city on lockdown to try to contain them.”_

Lio sucks in a breath through his teeth. He hadn’t realized it was that bad outside his small bubble of central Massachusetts. “I didn’t know.”

_“Are you safe where you are right now?”_ The question catches Lio off-guard.

“I… don’t know. Not really. The police already interviewed me, they’ve come around the house a couple of times. My roommate told them I wasn’t here. I know they’re going to arrest me and I don’t want to think about what happens after that.”

_“Nothing good,”_ Ana says grimly. _“I have a neighbor who turned Burnish. The police raided his flat and dragged him away in shackles. They’re arresting Burnish right and left; there isn’t enough room in the jails for them anymore. They’re being stuffed into warehouses like cattle, kept in cages already. In refrigerators.”_

“Oh,” Lio sighs, alarm coursing through him like lightning. How had he not known any of this? Is it also that bad in Massachusetts? “I—I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to get arrested. I need help. I can’t stay here, the police know me, they’re looking for me.”

_“Don’t panic,”_ Ana says firmly, then sighs again. _“I’m Burnish, too. Nobody has found out yet, and I want to keep it that way for as long as I can.”_

“Oh,” Lio repeats, feeling struck dumb. How could he ask Ana to take him in, when he’s a wanted fugitive and doing that would put her in so much danger? “I’m sorry—”

_“Shh,”_ Ana shushes him, not unkindly. _“You’re not safe, and I can’t ignore that. I know you’re on your own. Do you have control over yourself?”_

“I think so,” Lio says uncertainly.

_“Have you burned anything else? Do you want to burn anything else? Do you hear voices?”_

“No,” Lio answers slowly. “Am I supposed to?”

_“It’s what I’ve heard from other Burnish who have lost control. They’ve heard voices telling them to burn everything. You don’t hear anything?”_ Ana asks again, and Lio actually pauses and takes a deep breath, holding it tightly in his chest as he concentrates on listening as hard as he can. On the other end of the line, Ana rustles, the static coming through like little pops and sparks. The baseboard radiator along one wall of Lio’s room ticks quietly as it heats up. Outside, a car whooshes down the street. Lio lets out his breath and gulps down another one, closing his eyes. 

His own heart thuds dully in his ears, muffled and soft like velvet. Between beats, there’s a soft rustling like wind through the trees in autumn. It’s a sighing, inhaling-exhaling noise, like waves on a beach. The harder Lio focuses on it, the louder it becomes. It almost, _almost_ sounds like fragments of words. He can pick out some airy vowels, soft and flattened consonants. A persistent, rolling R. His lungs burn desperately in his chest and his breath escapes, the sound of the air rushing out of him obscuring the rustling.

“No,” Lio says again, softly. Ana hums.

_“Good. If you can keep under control and stay under wraps, you can come stay with me.”_

Lio sucks in a sharp breath. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Ana.”

Ana’s wry smile is clear as day in her voice when she says, _“I couldn’t leave my favorite roommate out to dry like that.”_

“How should I get to New York? I don’t have a car. I can’t fly, because they’re looking for me.”

_“Take the bus,”_ Ana says simply. _“I’ll meet you at the Port Authority. My apartment is small, but so are you. It’ll be fine.”_

Lio laughs, his heart jumping into his throat. “Yeah. It’ll be fine. I’ll text you to let you know when I leave.”

_“Good. Stay safe, Lio.”_ With that, Ana hangs up. Lio takes a few shaky breaths, his entire body now vibrating with strained purpose, filled with directionless energy. He needs to get to New York as soon as possible, if the mayor is really considering travel restrictions. It sounds like the Burnish thing is a lot more serious and widespread than Lio had taken it for. He buys a one-way bus ticket on his phone and crawls out of bed, shivering at the sudden cold, and stuffs all his underwear and socks and several shirts and three pairs of pants into his backpack alongside his laptop and chargers. Indecision stills his frantic hands momentarily, makes him look up and cast an appraising glance around his bedroom. Should he take more? A blanket, anything sentimental? Will he ever come back to this apartment? What will happen to his meager other possessions if he didn’t?

But if he did—what would happen to them when he gets thrown in jail? Would they be confiscated by the police, thrown away, auctioned off anyways? Lio stares long and hard at the battered MDF bureau and cheap metal bedframe he picked up from the local thrift store, the now-ratty fleece blankets his mom had given him when he’d gone off to college. His splayed-open drawers are filled with bright-colored clothes he no longer wears, artifacts from before his recent transition. The walls are bare and neutral. Outside this room, he owns dining-hall-grade silverware, two plates, two bowls, and a half-dozen Ikea glasses. The ancient, ripped brown sofa was left by the last roommate. With a large suitcase, Lio could pack up his life and become a vagrant.

As he stares at his few earthly possessions, confronted with the reality that he is now fleeing for his life and becoming a refugee, Lio feels a surge of affection towards the tatty, childishly-colored blankets; towards the frilled and ruffled pastel dresses and blouses; towards the spoons that he had purchased off Amazon. Why? He’s never loved any of them before. They’ve always been remnants of a past life or ugly objects of necessity or weights that hold him down in this slum. It’s only in the face of such change that his mind is beginning to cling to the familiar, as disappointing and destitute as it is.

With a firm shake of the head, Lio pushes all those thoughts out of his mind and forcibly severs the tenuous emotional connections he has to everything not in his backpack. Trying to take everything with him when Ana lives in a shoebox and is sheltering him out of the goodness of her heart is not an option. Still, though, Lio’s right hand creeps towards the open shirt drawer of its own volition, fingers brushing against the silk lace ruffles of the nearest white blouse. They close on the delicate fabric, lifting up the frothy shirt like a small waterfall of netting. His Confirmation shirt. His mother had made the small concession of allowing him a blouse and skirt instead of forcing him into a white dress, and his aunt had gifted him this heirloom silk shirtwaist worn by his grandmother on special occasions. It has a profusion of fine lace around the cuffs and puffs of it fall from the high collar in what his mother had once called a “jabot.” Lio doesn’t actually care much about the textile history of the piece, and even though his feelings about the Church and his family are conflicted at best, it feels wrong to abandon this shirt. Silently it falls into the waiting, zippered jaws of Lio’s backpack.

Then, suddenly spent, Lio crawls back into bed and wraps the fleece around himself and palms his phone and tries not to take too much comfort from the familiarity of his bed. It won’t be his after he wakes up tomorrow morning and leaves this room for the last time. He needs to sleep, his bus leaves at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, and he sends Ana a quick message with his itinerary. Rest feels elusive, even though Lio is tired. He can’t get his thoughts to quiet enough to actually fall asleep.

As the room chills and night deepens around Lio, he sits blearily in his huddle of blankets, half-open eyes staring sightlessly at the wall in front of him. Partially-formed ideas flit and flicker through his mind like a flock of startled birds, too noisy to let Lio sleep, but not loud or bright enough to keep him truly awake. He doesn’t even know what the thoughts are, just that they’re there and they’re upset.

Eventually, time collapses down around Lio and his phone buzzes in hand, its chime muffled by the blankets. Stiffly, he stirs and blinks dry, heavy eyes and automatically silences his phone. Unwinding leaden legs, Lio drips off the bed, his feet masses of static and needles. The icy air of the room bites into Lio’s bare hands, his face already chilled. He stuffs his numbed feet into his favorite, worn-out black boots that are ready at the door next to his backpack. 

The apartment is dark and cold and empty. Lio has no clue where his roommate is, if he’s even home. He pulls open the fridge and winces at the light. He checks his phone. He has an hour until the bus is scheduled to leave, and it takes thirty minutes to walk to the bus terminal. The fridge is barren, but there is Greek yogurt and leftover rice. The rice, Lio figures, is only about a week old and he knows yogurt is safe past its expiration date, so he washes one of his spoons and eats both, cold and straight out of their containers, then throws everything into the trash. He wants to wash the containers and put them back where they’re supposed to go, but why bother? He’s never coming back. Nothing here is his anymore, except for the clothes on his body.

Outside, the city of Wauchusset is slow to wake and bitterly cold. It’s the type of driving cold that makes Lio curl in on himself, shrinking and compressing his person down until he’s half his usual (tiny) size in a paltry effort to protect himself. It makes the walk to the depot seem never-ending. Each car that whisks past him buffets him with colder, sharper air that burns his throat with every inhale. He focuses only on putting one foot in front of the other, but his exhausted, wary mind spies police cruisers in every passing vehicle. His heart hammers nauseatingly in his throat the entire way to the bus terminal.

As Lio rounds the last bend in the road and steps out from underneath the overpass, the bus terminal comes into view and, horribly, so does the Wauchusset PD cruiser parked out front. Lio tugs his hat further down over his head, covering his eyebrows and earlobes as if that’ll do anything to hide his identity. He wavers briefly between taking a more circuitous route, further away from the cop, and risking looking suspicious; or making a beeline for the bus and coming within fifteen feet of the cruiser, thus allowing the cop inside to get a good look at him and probably recognize him. His picture has been all over the media and social media—if anyone has seen him at this point, the cops will surely know. The second that thought occurs to Lio, panic seizes his chest. He looks around wildly, bile rising in his throat as it dawns on him that he’s the only pedestrian out here. Nobody else is out walking—they’re all sequestered inside, afraid of the Burnish. It’s seven in the morning on a Saturday in the middle of November; the sun hasn’t even come up yet. Nobody would be out at this time anyways. Everything about Lio screams _“I’m very suspicious!”_ right now, and the cops are bound to descend on him at any moment.

Armpits and palms suddenly wet with sweat, Lio forces himself to keep walking and ends up on a strange middle-ground path between overtly avoiding the cop and coming foolishly close. He swallows his heart down forcibly but it bobs back up into his mouth like a buoy. It’s so big he’s choking to breathe around it. The cruiser is coming closer, swimming towards him unevenly. Lio forces his stride to be more even, swallowing hard again. His heart continues to suffocate him. His temples are damp now. His entire body is _hot._ The chill of the walk to the depot is only a memory; now every item of clothing is stuck to his body with sweat. Lio fights the urge to strip off his hat and jacket and peel them from his overheated body. Panic dances in his stomach, threatening to force the rice and yogurt back up his throat.

Lio risks a lightning-fast glance into the black-and-white car, electric fear gripping his body like a Taser stun. But he doesn’t find hard eyes staring back at him, or a gun and handcuffs flashing in the dashboard lights. Lio does another double-take, biting down on his breath so hard his teeth hurt. The car is empty. Dark. Still. Nothing moves. Lio hisses out an uneven breath, his heart stumbling over its next beat, and he gasps-in-forces-out another breath just to keep himself walking. Looking ahead, the buses are coming closer with every step. 

There’s three giant grey buses parked under the overhang in the predawn dimness, one of which is idling. Its low rumble fills the air around it with sound and heat like a cloud of steam released from a sauna, and Lio relaxes slightly once he steps into it. The door is closed to ward off the cold and the interior is dark, but as Lio steps up to the door he sees the driver stir inside and the door swings open in a narrow arc. Lio climbs up inside and the door whines shut behind him, enclosing him in the warm, dark, muted, womb-like cabin.

“Ticket and ID?” the driver asks, sounding sleepy. Lio paws at his outer pocket for his phone, then digs around in his jacket’s inner pocket for his ID, biting the inside of his cheek as he does so. He reluctantly hands over both, his e-ticket shining on his phone screen, heart rate soaring with every second the driver pores over the documents that identify him as Caroline Fotia, the fugitive wanted for killing a man. The driver looks up at Lio briefly and they lock eyes, and Lio fears what he might find there in the driver’s dark and tired eyes and his dark and tired face, but then the driver passes the phone and ID back to him. “Thanks, ma’am. Sit wherever, we’re gonna be leaving soon. One stop in Hartford then straight to Port Authority.”

“Thanks,” Lio answers tightly, strangely relieved that the only thing he has to be upset about is the misgendering. It still punches him in the chest, but with how he’s so tightly strung on terror, it hardly makes an impact.

He settles down in a window seat on the right-hand side of the bus in the middle, far away from the other handful of passengers that are similarly scattered about. It takes a few deep, focused breaths for Lio to uncoil enough to actually put his back against the seat instead of perching ramrod-straight on the edge. Of course, sitting back fully means his feet no longer touch the floor, so he kicks at the footrest until it descends into a position he can reach, then he tucks his backpack under his knees and takes another conscious breath for good measure. In the faint fogginess surrounding the bus and the murky drabness of the morning, Lio can barely make out the cruiser still parked in front of the depot. His right leg begins bouncing, the footrest squeaking ever so slightly with the motion.

Thoughts of the police stepping out of the depot and walking straight towards the bus, dragging Lio off of it and beating him down, throwing him in jail; rush at Lio like oncoming traffic. He tries to shake them away and dodge the thoughts but they’re relentless and they wind up the pit of his stomach tighter and tighter until he feels physically ill, his leg dancing furiously and every muscle in his body tensed. The sudden flash of the cabin lights startles a smothered gasp out of Lio, then the driver’s voice rolls through the bus, modulated by a crackly and outdated PA system.

_“Go-o-o-od morning ladies and gentlemen,”_ the driver says, his voice low and smooth like a radio announcer’s, lacking any of the tiredness Lio had seen on the man. _“Welcome aboard the bus to New York City – Port Authority. We are now departing at our scheduled time of 7:30 a.m.”_ The bus’s engine growl rises from the pillowy sound of idle into a more pointed roar as the massive vehicle lurches, then slowly glides backwards. _“We will make one stop in Hartford, Connecticut at about 9:30 a.m. where we will be accepting more passengers on a short 20-minute layover before continuing right on down to New York City. Estimated arrival time is approximately 1 p.m. and that is our terminal destination.”_

The bus lurches again, then glides forward and pulls out into traffic, passing the front of the depot. Lio tastes a bitter sense of victory as they pass the still-dormant cruiser, secure in the knowledge that the cops couldn’t get him now even if they walked outside and saw his little pale face in the bus window and recognized him. As the bus trundles through the city, Lio allows himself to relax minutely. At least here in this transient state, he’s safe. For a few hours, he’ll just be _safe_ and not have to worry about anything. The damp grey buildings fade away through the damp grey morning outside the damp grey bus, and Lio finally lets enough tension drain out of his body that he dozes off, head lolling back against the seat as the highway south unfurls before him.


End file.
